! Why I Love/Hate/Love

I am the product of a boarding high school diet. I ate a powdered breakfast every day for four years straight and never thought twice. My routine was the same: American cheesy in a bowl, covered with whatever version of hash browns was being served, smothered in ketchup and mixed together. And I thought this was good? Somehow, my midwestern upbringing of fresh eggs and bacon had disappeared. I was brainwashed into believing these were the real thing. Was it the hash browns I loved? The sweet, tangy Heinz? Was any of it good? The eggs were a vehicle for cheese… protein too, but mostly cheese. And I decided I did not like eggs. But I was an iron-deficient vegetarian with not many options to keep me full until lunch. So I attempted to cover fake egg taste in as many ways as I could. God forbid there was a morning where only plain scrambled eggs were offered. I would eat cereal and comfort my stomach with the apples I smuggled out of the dining hall until lunch. My egg- hating tendencies grew worse. I wouldn’t order any sandwich with an egg in it. I wouldn’t even accept a few scrambled in a breakfast burrito. At one point, my dad believed he’d nailed down a no-fail way for me to eat scrambled eggs: Laughing Cow soft cheese. The kind that comes in tin-foil triangles with little red tabs and squishes between your fingers. I could try it, but I’d flash back to my normal high school breakfast and gag. I resented my high school eggs so much, I decided I hated all eggs. And then, I graduated high school.

Don’t Break (up with) My : The

Sunny side up and runny. I don’t eat them over easy, I don’t eat them hard. I want that sunshine bulge to be staring up at me from my plate. I cut around golden treasure and eat pieces of shiny, greasy white until

I’m left with only the bouncy yolk. I scoop the whole jewel up and put it right into my mouth. It’s satisfying both in taste and cleanliness: no drippy yoke sliding into other foods. No way I want to miss one part of its bright yellow magnificence. And the best part: no hardened goop on my plate when I’m done. A triumph for those of us without dishwashers. The British have really nailed the fried egg in a

Traditional English Breakfast. They put all the right things on a plate to keep the fried egg comfy: baked beans, tomatoes, mushrooms — yeah that sounds delicious. But wait, I thought I hated eggs? What happened? Did I fall in a vat of radioactive slime? Where were my super-powers? Nope. I’d somehow

!1 snapped out of my powdered egg-fueled hatred and begun to see the light. I like eggs. The first step is admitting it. What else had I been missing out on?

Eggs, Forgive Me. I’ve Been Hard (boiled) on You

My mind began churning. Seriously, what other eggs had I been ignoring because of my self-proclaimed dislike? I wanted something like a sunny-side-up egg yolk with a hard-boiled coat on. I craved it. I dreamed about it. I googled how to soft boil an egg, and I became an unstoppable soft boiling machine. I went through a dozen eggs in four days. I was determined to enjoy that soft melty yolk without the potentially rubbery greasy fried white. And I did. Oh my, did I enjoy that. Maybe a little too much. I became a bit sick of, and from, eating soft boiled eggs exclusively. Everything in moderation. And yet I still couldn’t be deterred. I’d opened the door to the chamber of secrets and it couldn’t be closed. Hard- boiled eggs though, I have not attempted to master. I know the process is relatively the same, but it requires a bit more craft. It’s a fine line between a wonderfully hard-boiled result and the weird and green version. I once begged my mother to cook me for dinner. I begged for weeks on end until she finally gave in: I sat in front of a plate with bright-green eggs from the finest food coloring.

Turns out, the way something looks really does affect how it tastes. From then on hard boiled eggs with even a tinge of green made my stomach turn. On the tasting side, I’ve yet to have a brainwashed experience with any hard-boiled eggs. It was the one cook I never disliked. It’s my safe hotel breakfast option, especially in Europe. And I’m a big fan of egg salad, but n even bigger fan of egg salad on wheat thins. So I’ve always been into egg salad and it’s is delicious. So I know what I’d been ignoring, but what about my old favorites?

My Forgotten Favorite: The Coddle(d) me Egg

My mom says I would beg for these when I was younger. (I sense a begging for eggs trend.) Until I recovered from my egg-nesia, I had completely forgotten that they existed. Coddled eggs are an outdated style of cooking that requires placing an uncooked egg, along with a lot of butter, in an egg shaped ceramic cup with a metal lid. The dish is lowered into boiling water and cooked for 6-7 minutes before being taken out and eaten. Imagine a soft in a cup with a lot of butter. The whites are firm but the yolk is runny — flashback to my perfect fried egg — and it’s begging for dipping strips of buttered toast. Or as I call them, lady fingers. I’ll admit in addition to my egg obsession I have a butter addiction,

!2 but that’s for another essay. I suppose one should wait until it has cooled down, but I usually don’t. For the record, an egg induced mouth burn is way worse than a pizza induced mouth burn. Regardless of repercussions, the coddled is my ultimate egg. I have never, and will never, dislike eating this preparation.

Even if I do forget it exists from time to time.

Recovering from P.T.Eggs. D.

Each place I lived after high school gave me some insight into the world of eggs I’d been missing. When I lived in an apartment on my college campus, I discovered how to eat scrambled eggs without gagging. They came in the form of “wrecked” eggs — eggs in a pan with cheese. I prefer mine a little bit on the wet side, glistening ever so slightly so they don’t dry out. This wrecked type is the least likely version to set off my incredibly sensitive smoke alarm. I then moved into an apartment in the middle of town above a burger place and discovered that I could in fact cook a fried egg the way I liked it

(sunny-side-up) without setting it off. A little unironically the restaurant below me caught few months after I moved out — perhaps due to the lack of smoke detectors. Finally I moved to what would be my apartment for the remainder of college where I learned to poach, soft boil, and perfect my perfect omelet.

My Future Egg-ucation

I’m proud to say I’m in recovery and I’m dreaming big. My egg dream speaks to me like God in my sleep. Egg yolk ravioli. I first glimpsed this creation on a cooking competition show this past summer.

Something about that yolk, pure and simple and sleeping like an angel wrapped in a blanket of fresh pasta

— I’ve found the one. I truly believe once I try this egg, I will want nothing else. Scrambled eggs will tremble in its wake. I asked my mother to see if she had ever heard of, eaten or made this special dish.

She paused upon mention of it. She was shocked. It was probably the best thing she’s ever eaten, she said.

Really? The best? My mother is a traveler: she has eaten a lot of foods. If she says it’s the best, I believe her. Sign me up. The issue with this particular egg desire is my lack of ability to make not only the pasta, but also execute the transfer of an uncooked egg yolk into the pasta and then into the water and cook it perfectly without it breaking or letting water in. Good luck to me. If I’m going to embark on this difficult journey, I need to be sure. The road to this egg yolk ravioli will be long and treacherous. I need to love eggs with all my heart and I need to commit to them before taking this plunge. Eggs, it’s time we define this relationship.

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